Legacy
by Shentaro
Summary: Fate twists and turns, and the destinies of three exceptional young people, a wizard and two witches, will become entwined. A story about realizations, discoveries, friendships, love and family. A post OOP, a HPHGLL story.
1. Moon Gazing

**Disclaimer – if you recognize it, it's not mine **

**Chapter One – Moon Gazing**

In the glade of a great and old oak forest, under the shade of an impressive tree, laid a perfectly normal house. The house had white painted walls, and the roof was covered with red tiling. The windows, clear and large, were wide open to allow the rays of the morning summer sun to bathe the interior with its warming rays.

In front of the house, a well manicured lawn gave the dwelling a peaceful and welcoming air. A path of white stones stretched from the house's entrance to the edge of the forest where it faded into a lane through the trees that connected it with the world outside.

From the side of the house another trail twisted and turned under the foliage of the trees. It opened on the shores of a small lake fueled by a slow-flowing stream. An ancient looking willow had grown near the water; its long and lithe branches were fanning in the wind, their tips slightly kissing the surface of pond.

A slender young woman with long golden hair descended down the trail with small, well thought-out steps and stopped under its shadow. Her robe, made from a pale blue ethereal fabric was a nice compliment to her big azure eyes, eyes that seemed to absorb everything around her with an intensity that was disturbing in one such young as her. She was barefoot, and the rich green grass was barely affected by her passing.

She squatted near the edge of the lake, where the willow's graceful branches could just barely mingle with her hair as it was blown by the soft breeze that wrinkled the surface of the water.

"Hello Mother," the girl spoke while she absentmindedly drew figures on the surface of the crystal clear water with her left hand, startling a small fish.

In the silence of the forest her lips arched a little when a whiff of wind lifted a strand of her hair, twirling it in the air.

"I missed you too," she continued with longing, answering to unspoken words. "And Father does as well. More and more each day," she finished nodding vigorously to emphasize her point.

"Oh, you should have seen him Mother, when he came to bring me home yesterday. He was radiating, he really was! He caught me in his arms and he spun me around _twice_ before he let me touch the ground. I haven't seen him happy like that in years..." her voice trailed away while memories flashed briefly before her eyes; memories of a time in which laughter was an everyday occurrence in her home.

"Did he tell you?" her voice perked up again. "He found them Mother! He really did. They're in Sweden, you know? And he has plans for the two of us to go and track them down," the last bits were spoken in a whispered voice, as if she did not want to be overheard.

Luna then looked up forlornly from the lake's mirror. Distractedly, she tracked the flight of a red and yellow butterfly as he struggled with the currents of air. When the butterfly rested his wing on top of a white flower she turned her attention back to the lake. She spoke slowly, as if she had to struggle to form each and every word, and her eyes were now shining with unshed tears.

"He left this morning to finalize the last details of our trip, and I didn't say anything to him. He kissed me on the cheek and told me that he loved me before he left. And all I did was wave at him good-bye.

"I hadn't had the heart to tell him that I won't be going with him on this adventure. Not now and maybe not ever."

When she finished what she had to say, she no longer fought back the tears, and soon she had twin glistening salty trails damping her cheeks.

She cried quietly, for her life, for her parents and for the future that had just slipped out of her reach.

"Yes, Mother, it is time," she sadly admitted, biting on her lower lip to stifle a sob which was building in her chest. "I feel it, even now, deep inside me, slipping further and further from me with each moment that passes. I... I do not have much time left..."

She gathered her strength and climbed up to her feet. She lifted her chin up and spoke with renewed determination.

"And Mother, I chose to end it on my own terms, while it is still my choice to make. Here, where everything started, long ago. I cannot think of a better place."

Once she had let out in the open that which was weighting on her soul, she had felt more lucid and in touch with herself than ever before.

She looked one last time around with her eyes wide open, taking in the beautiful landscape.

"You were right Mother," she spoke with a genuine smile on her lips. "The world can be a wonderful place indeed.

"It is truly a beautiful day Mother. And it is time. Thank you for everything you gave me Mother. Goodbye..."

She made one careful step into the lake. She could feel the cold water rippling around her bare ankles and she idly thought if she was going to feel anything ever again.

She drew one more deep breath and began that which she came here to do.

She spread her arms wide to her sides and tilted her head backwards, white fluffy clouds entering her field of view. Bit by bit she closed her eyes.

When her eyelids came down for a final time, a powerful whirlwind formed around her body, spraying away the water, throwing it into the air. The wind gained even more energy, bending the trees of the forest, and at its peak it almost tore apart the aged willow.

When Luna's personal storm finally died down, she lowered her arms leisurely. She was breathing slowly, gazing far away, at what, not even she could tell anymore.

Hours passed, and she stayed in that one spot, without moving a single muscle, oblivious at everything around her.

"Luna!" a powerful male voice echoed through the woods, coming from the direction of her house.

"Where are you Luna?" the voice was heard again, this time closer to where she was.

"Are you fishing with the fairies again?" a tall man with broad shoulders and sandy hair asked good-naturedly from several steps behind her. "They haven't returned yet, or have they?"

"Luna?" his steps and voice faltered when his daughter didn't give any sign that she was aware of his presence.

With terrified steps he entered in the shallow water and placed a gentle hand on her shoulders. Fearing the worst, she slowly turned Luna to face him; the girl opposed no resistance.

When he saw the blank look in her once lively eyes he realized that his most horrible nightmare had finally came to life. His knees gave up and he fell down in water, feeling lost and alone in a world that suddenly had nothing to offer him anymore.

_AN - this is just a prolouge; I will post more soon_


	2. A Gift from the Past

**Disclaimer – Harry Potter & co is not mine and no profit is made out of this work of fiction**

**Chapter 2 - A Gift from the Past**

The clear sky was blue, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, people were waving and greeting each other happily on the streets, and a tall, thin man appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the living-room of the house from number four, Privet Drive, Surrey; all in all, nothing out of the ordinary for this small part of the world.

Only the slightest pop of displaced air could have drawn the attention to the man's arrival, a testament to his highly developed skills and abilities. Anyone who would have seen him would have had no problem in figuring out just what this man was supposed to be: his waist-long white beard and hair, along with his blue robes and blue pointed hat screamed _wizard_ for the entire world to hear.

The wizard, for he really was one, and a most famous one at that, looked around with undisguised interest, checking the premises. He seemed a little disappointed when he discovered that no one was around. Not only did the room in which he was feel empty, the entire house felt abandoned as well. Intrigued, he made two steps into the hall, and carefully entered the kitchen. Again, he found nobody.

He stopped for a moment in the middle of the kitchen to think, unhurriedly combing his long, gnarled fingers through his thick beard. All of a sudden, his eyes, behind his trademarked half-moon glasses, flared with power, and an instant later the old man was sure that beside himself and one other, there were no human beings inside the normal looking house. He was most pleased with what he had found; though he would have liked to exchange some well thought words with the gracious hosts, he had learnt long ago that in life he couldn't always get what he wanted – though he did try nonetheless.

Always one to search for small details, he spotted some candy in a jar conveniently placed on a cabinet. Wasting no time, he served himself from the full pot. As he idly unwrapped the delicious looking bonbon, the face of a fierce looking woman shouting and pointing at a pile of yellow candy appeared in his mind. When he popped it into his mouth, he dismissed the thought; no matter what the healer might have said after his last health check, there was no way that these yummy little things were going to be the end of him. Munching happily on the sweet and gaily humming a lurid tune he turned around and made his way to the stairs that led to the upstairs room. He climbed them swiftly, with an agility that defied his age.

When he arrived in front of the room he soughed, he took a moment to check the assortment of locks, latches and other various locking instruments that adorned the rather plain looking wooden door. Somewhat amazed at the ingenuity that was spent securing the room, he casually waved his left hand and all the locks popped open. He pushed the door open and smiled warmly at the person that was on the other side.

Behind the door, in the middle of the small room, a boy of not yet sixteen years of age was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, serenely looking out the open window at the world outside. He was fully dressed; black shoes, blue gins, and a white t-shirt formed his current attire, all well-worn, all at least two sizes too big for his skinny frame. A black robe adorned with the distinct crest of Hogwarts was draped over his shoulders. Around him, disarray and chaos ruled the day in the room that looked like it hadn't been cleaned in about a year. Huge gray cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and Dumbledore thought that he would have locked the door just as tightly if not more so, if he would have had a room like this, just to keep the spiders inside.

"Hello Harry," the wizard warmly greeted the boy, just like a grandfather would welcome his favorite nephew.

The boy did not respond. He didn't even turn to welcome his guest. In fact, Dumbledore wasn't entirely sure that Harry even acknowledged his presence. Stumped by the lack of answer, and worried that something might be wrong with his young protégé, he did what every concerned parent would have done in a situation such as this: he presumed that an outside force, namely one that went by the name of Voldemort had attacked him, and that in the aftermath of the will battle that followed, his mind had collapsed under the vicious assault, or worse. He was just about to do the reasonable thing of sending a mild legilimency probe towards him when the boy slowly spun around.

"Hello Headmaster," Harry finally politely saluted Dumbledore. His voice was clear, and his eyes, two deep green pools, shone with an inner light that reflected the peace and tranquility of his soul. "What may I do for you?"

The question was asked in such a way that for the moment Dumbledore was taken aback. This was not the Harry he had expected to find. Judging by the tumultuous emotional state in which he had been only yesterday when he had left Hogwarts, combined with the awful fact that he had to live under the same roof as his rude relatives, Harry should have been by now a wreck of his former self, tortured by nightmares fueled by the weight of the ill fated prophecy and by the death of his godfather. It was a terrible fate for anyone, especially for someone as young as he. That being said, the calm and confidence Harry now displayed was surprising to say the least; a most welcomed surprise indeed.

Looking into Harry's eyes that were inquisitively doing the same to him, he was sure that nothing and no one had tampered with the boys mind. He was proud that the boy had succeeded in overcoming his demons in such a short time. Then again, he always had faith in the boy, even when the boy had none into himself. Beneath his beard Dumbledore's smile grew and his eyes began to twinkle more than before.

"Harry, I apologize for disturbing your vacation so soon," Dumbledore began, deciding that speaking with a collected Harry was much more pleasant than to converse with the epitome of anger and resentment Harry had embodied not too long ago. "But, the Order of the Phoenix and I are badly in need of your help," he confessed, stepping near the window, but careful not to touch the dust covered frame, trying to spot what could possibly have attracted Harry's attention earlier. Not seeing anything particular, he looked back at Harry.

Harry raised an eyebrow at the old man, urging him to go on. Apart from that simple gesture, he did nothing.

"My presence here has to do with Sirius, Harry, and more precisely with Sirius's last will and testament." If he had thought that the small piece of information he provided would produce a shock in the young wizard, then he was seriously mistaken. The expression of polite curiosity that Harry sported didn't waver for one single bit.

Dumbledore, due to his well trained eyes, had no problems in figuring out that Harry's grasp of occlumency had improved dramatically. The control he now displayed over his emotions was just short of astonishing. The lessons he had taken with Professor Snape really did pay off in the end; just like he knew they would, eventually.

"The will has been found and read, and, as expected, Sirius has left everything he owned to you, Harry," Dumbledore continued with a pointed look at the boy. Harry nodded in understanding, expecting as much. "And here is where our problem resides. The moment Sirius passed away, protective wards came up around our headquarters, wards that prevent us from entering it anymore. Thankfully, no one was inside when this happened. We could overcome them in time, but even so, it would be very hazardous for us to continue using the building without the accord of its current master. And that master is you, Harry."

"Of course, Headmaster, you have my full permission to use the building as you have done until now," Harry assured the wizard as if this would have been only a matter of the smallest importance.

"Thank you, Harry," Dumbledore replayed graciously, "but I am afraid that the situation is not so simple remedied. As you very well know, all the fortunes of the old wizarding families are handled by the goblins, as it is stated by the standing treaties between our two civilizations. According to their laws, the key to the wards, as well as the rest of the Black wealth is to be passed to you, and only you, and only in your presence. For that we must journey up to Gringotts, together. And after that, because of the nature of the wards you must lower them personally."

"I see," Harry said pensively, his gaze drifting again outside the widow. Dumbledore corked his head as well, but again, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. "Very well then, when do we depart?" Harry asked normally, looking back up at Dumbledore.

"Right now, if it is all right with you. Is it?"

"My agenda is free for the rest of the day, so I see no problem with the proffered course of action," Harry alleged after appearing to peruse some mental files.

"Good, good. Harry, we will be using a portkey," Dumbledore said pulling a beautiful gold carved medallion from one of his robes' many pockets, "that has been gracefully provided to us by the goblins. It will take us directly to the office of the goblin solicitor in charge with the case. You do have your wand with you, don't you?"

Harry nodded.

"Good, never leave home without it. If we are all set, then let us be off to a new adventure!"

They both touched the portkey and with the activation password, _grumbelbin-dorak_, whispered by the Headmaster, they were whisked away in a jiffy, leaving behind an empty house, nothing more than a dreadful memory in the back of a young wizard's mind.

They landed almost immediately in a luxurious room decorated with complicated carved furniture and opulent red Persian rugs. Rich panoplies of weapons of all size and shapes adorned the gold painted walls.

Of course, Harry wasn't preoccupied with the room's furnishings at the moment of arrival. Tradition was a very powerful motivator in the wizarding world, and at that time, not even his new found inner peace was enough to pull Harry from its grasp. He had lost his equilibrium and had fallen, the painted ceiling unfolding itself to his eyes in all its glory. Leisurely, Harry climbed up to his feet.

One of the room's walls was a large window that let the rays of the sun bath the inside in a warm light. In front of the window there was a wide desk made out of massive wood and behind him, an elegant dressed goblin stood waiting patiently for them.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Dumbledore, welcome," the goblin said in perfect English, rising to his feet to greet them. He motioned with a wave of his right hand to the two brown leather covered armchairs in front of him for them to sit.

What followed was a most boring hour in which the goblin, who introduced himself as Gramin the Fifth, talked and Harry listened. The solicitor meticulously explained the ins and outs of the inheritance process with an avalanche of details, not in the least concerned if his audience listened to his words or not; this was the procedure in cases such as this, where huge amounts of gold were changing ownership into the hands of a person, Harry in this case, that didn't have the slightest idea about the process, and there was no way around it. He talked, and talked, and when he was finally done talking, he looked to see if the two wizards were asleep or not. Knowing who Dumbledore was, the goblin was not surprised to see him alert as always with a smile on his face, no doubt used to these useless speeches due to his work as Supreme Mugwump; his patience, honed by the passing of years, must have been short of infinite. When he looked at Mr. Potter, he was amazed that he couldn't detect a single sign of impatience or boredom on the young man's face. In fact, he couldn't detect anything other than a mild polite interest. The goblin was most impressed.

Seeing that he still had their attention, he dressed his voice with a discrete couth and began to talk again. This time he talked about more interesting subjects, such as the total value of the inheritance Harry was about to receive, and how to access it. And again, the minutes flew, the numbers rolled, and documents were scrutinized.

Finally, when the end was in sight, Gramin pushed a lonely official looking scroll towards Harry, announcing that he now only had to sign at the bottom and everything will be over. Beside the scroll a black feather also appeared.

Harry took the quill between his fingers, and with only the slightest hesitation he put down his name with a flourish at the bottom of the document. As the red ink was absorbed by the paper sealing the contract, he ignored the small sting he felt on the back of his hand.

That was approximately a quarter of an hour ago, not that Harry was counting the minutes or anything. Absorbed as he was by his little experiment, the trivial affairs of the world around him had little to no meaning to him. For he had found peace, and everything else was of no consequence.

It began the moment he had entered his dearly beloved room after he returned from Hogwarts. His loving uncle had closed the door behind him, sneering from below his mustache, and he was sure he had heard his cousin snigger from further down the hall. He was left in the dark, foreboding room, all by himself.

Harry clearly heard his uncle locking the door from the outside. The air of the room was fetid. The light switch didn't work. When he plumped himself on the bed, the mother of all dust clouds rose in the room, stinging his eyes and making him and Hedwig choke. He stumbled to the window through an atrocious coughing fit to open it, only to find it jammed. And outside in the hall his dear relatives were laughing at his expense.

To say that he didn't take it very well would an insult to the word understatement.

This, the Dursleys figured out when the house began to shake from all its joints. When they had been rudely knocked down off their feet, their smiles vanished from their faces. When cracks began to appear in the walls, they whimpered in fear. When an outrageous ear-piercing scream was heard coming from their nephew's room, leaving them with blood coming out of their ears, they thought the sky had crashed upon their heads.

And then it was over, just as sudden as it began. No more shaking, no more yelling. The silence was unreal. In perhaps the most intelligent display of intelligence that was ever manifested by the muggle family, they scrambled to their feet and hurried to put as much distance between Harry and them.

Behind the heavily locked door Harry was breathing slowly. While he was busy screaming his frustration out of his system, something happened. He had no idea what it was. It had felt like something snapped inside of him, like an elastic cord that was pulled too much, way beyond its normal breaking limits. The shock, which he felt through his entire body, left a tingling sensation in its wake.

In that moment he stopped screaming.

Curious, and a little confused, he lifted his hands in front of his face, slowly flexing and extending his fingers. Something had changed, deep within. But what?

Absentmindedly he reached again for the window's latch. It opened without resistance. The clear night's air invaded the room, and Harry pulled it deep inside his lungs. Much better.

He stood in that place, open mouthed, just gazing outside, with no thoughts passing through his head.

He could hear his heart pumping in a soothing rhythm in his chest.

He could feel the blood rushing through his veins.

He could feel the air as he breathed in and out.

His mind was clearer then ever before. There was no more anger anymore, no more worries, no more questions, no more nothing.

He was at peace. He was... content. And he liked it.

All his doubts, uncertainties and fears were buried in a hidden place, and Harry intended to keep them like that for as long as possible.

A ruffle of feathers drew his attention to his left. There, perched on the edge of the room's desk, his faithful familiar was watching him curiously through her big yellow eyes. During Harry's involuntarily display of power her cage had fallen and opened, releasing the proud bird.

Hedwig hooted affectionately when she saw her master looking at her and jumped on his outstretched left hand.

"Fly, Hedwig, fly!" was what he said to her, tossing the owl out the window. With a grateful hoot she took off, stretching her wings in the night's sky, a ball of snow soaring through the air. Hedwig circled the house a few times before she faded into the night to hunt her pray.

Harry remained behind, tracking her elegant flight.

He stood in that place in front of the window with a smile plastered on his face long after his owl disappeared from the sky.

The hours passed, the night became day, and he still hadn't moved at all.

The sun rose above the horizon and the neighborhood sprang to life and he was still there, looking away.

The first test to his new found tranquility happened when Albus Dumbledore entered his room.

He surprised himself with the way he dealt with the situation. It was like he was a spectator and the show was playing right in front of his eyes.

He watched with detachment how he answered Dumbledore's questions. He was amused to see himself falling down on the floor of the solicitor. He listened patiently while the goblin talked.

It didn't matter what he did or where he was. He was at peace, and he couldn't bring himself to care about anything else.

At the moment, he was still at Gringotts. Dumbledore had been detained for a short period of time with other minor problems, and Harry was waiting for him in a secure antechamber, watching a broad savanna through a wide _window_. The tall yellow grass was waving in the hot air and he had his eyes locked with a big lion that prowled on the edge of a small pond, under the shadow of a palm tree.

So concentrated he was with the large feline, he failed to notice a door opening silently in the wall behind him where previously there was none. He hadn't felt either the small person that sneaked behind him with silent steps. Only when a knotty hand yanked with vigor on his right elbow several times, did he turned his head to see who or what had taken an interest in his person.

And there, grinning like mad was the weirdest goblin he had ever seen. For one thing, he was old. His wrinkled face, covered by ugly scars, was disconcerting on its own, but when it was combined with the row of brown, sharp, dagger-like teeth that could be seen through his parted lips, it was downright frightening. He was almost bald, only a staggering number of six long white lonely hairs were sticking out from the top of his shining head, and he had his right eye covered by a black eye-patch. But the manic glint in his good eye was enough to make the coldest blooded person run for the hills in abject terror.

Of course, the effect his lineaments had on Harry's blood pressure was astonishing only by its complete absence.

When the aged goblin saw that he had the wizard's undivided attention he placed his right index finger at his own lips in a shushing gesture. Then he made a show of assuring that the coast was clear, and that no unwanted ears or eyes were picking on their meeting. Seemingly satisfied with his the result of his recognizance, he turned his eye back on Harry who was looking unwearyingly at him.

Under Harry's eyes the goblin pulled from under his plain leather tunic with a very careful gesture a long, slim black box. Holding it with both hands, like the most fragile piece of china the world had ever seen, he handed it to the young wizard.

"Open it," the goblin helpfully encouraged Harry with his croaked tired voice that had the uncanny ability of leaving deep gashes on people's brains.

Something about that box was very familiar to Harry, stirring memories long thought lost, memories he never thought he had. Even in the state he was now in, Harry could feel the attraction generated by the wooden container.

Without taking time to think, Harry lifted his left hand to grab to box. He was about to touched it when he stopped, his hand hovering an inch above the shinny box, the shadow of a doubt passing over his face. But then, the air surrounding the black container gave a small pulse and his fingers were abruptly pulled towards it against his will. As soon as he touched the box, its top sprang open soundlessly, revealing the contents inside.

There, patiently waiting for his or her master, on a layer of red velvet, stood a magnificent necklace made out of small shining stones shaped in the form of frozen tear drops. The tug Harry now felt toward the delicate piece of jewelry was almost physical in its nature and his heart began to increase its pace.

Harry hadn't had time to ask himself any questions for once the lid was opened the necklace levitated smoothly out of the box. It hanged in midair for the span of one long deep breath, before it flashed in the blink of an eye towards Harry, where it coiled itself tightly around his neck.

For Harry the world spun around, then it turned upside down, then he passed through an endless bright blue light and then he opened his eyes only to see a majestic lion looking with defiance directly into his eyes. The lion let out a deafening roar before he jumped into the tall grass of the savanna, vanishing from sight.

Harry blinked in confusion and looked around. He was alone, in the Gringotts' antechamber, the strange goblin nowhere in sight. He looked down, and in his left hand he saw he was holding the black wooden box, proof enough that he hadn't imagined his unusual encounter. After a quick check up, he noticed that the box was empty. He cautiously massaged his neck with his right hand, but he couldn't find any traces of the necklace. As he absentmindedly filed this information, he yawned. Fingering pensively the box in his hand, he placed it in one of his pockets with a casual move.

Just in time, for the antechamber's door had opened and Albus Dumbledore stepped inside with a worried look on his usual unflappable face.

Things were going well. Too well, in fact. So something had to go wrong. And it did. The Dursleys. Dumbledore had just received the grim news. The Dursley had packed their things and left on an extended holyday. Without Harry. How was he going to tell this to the boy? He had promised him that he would not keep things hidden from him any longer. So he decided to tell him straight to his face, head on.

"Hello Harry, I am afraid I have some not so good news," he said to the boy as soon as he had reached him. "I have just been told that your aunt and uncle along with your cousin had left the country and they will not be back until autumn. This is most unfortunately, for it leaves you without the much needed blood protection against Tom. Because of this reason I must ask of you to remain for the rest of the summer in the new house you have inherited from your godfather. I know that you do not like it there, but it is the safest place we have at the moment at our disposal." While Dumbledore talked he watched carefully the boy's face to see how he would react to such dire news.

"If that's what you wish, Headmaster," Harry nodded in acceptance. "After all, it is for the best," he managed to say before he yawned again.

Dumbledore was satisfied. Harry had matured enough to understand where the priorities lied. Though he might have been happier at the Burrow, it wasn't very safe, not with the increase in Death Eater activity. Maybe things weren't as bad as he had thought. And with Harry living at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, security wouldn't be a problem.

With the problem settled in a satisfactory manner, Harry and Dumbledore had left the bank by means of another portkey.

Of course, when they landed on the dewless lawn in front of Black Manor, Harry fell again. Tradition demanded. He climbed up, yawning more ardent than before. By now he could barely held his eyelids open.

"Are you all right Harry?" Dumbledore asked concerned, eyeing his tired face.

"Just a little tired, Headmaster. I hadn't slept much last night." Harry turned to look at the old house. "What must I do?" He was eager to get inside. The call of a bed was becoming stronger then ever.

"Just go to the door, put your hand on the doorknob, and state your name and what you wish to do. And the house's wards should comply," Dumbledore explained helpfully, forgetting to mention the possible gruesome demise that awaited anyone deemed unworthy by the wards. Throughout history, the Blacks hadn't been known for their tolerant policy towards trespassers.

The old wizard remained at a safe distance away from the house while Harry approached the door with hurried feet. He put his left hand firmly on the snake-like door handle and did as instructed. He spoke very fast.

"I, Harry James Potter wish to enter the house. I also allow entrance to Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore and to whoever else he deems necessary."

With that being said he eagerly pushed opened the door and stepped inside the gloomy house without hesitation.

He went straight towards the stairs, ignoring the hysterical shouts of greeting coming from an obnoxious portrait and climbed them with judicious help from the railing. He headed right towards Sirius's former private chamber.

Once inside his chosen room, Harry ignored everything else but the huge comfortable four-poster bed. He disrobed in haste, throwing his clothes around, not caring were they landed. Once he was done with them he climbed on the bed, crawled beneath the lime-green cover, yawned, and he was asleep before his mouth fully closed back.

During his long and heavy deep sleep he dreamed, the most wonderful and baffling dream he ever had.

When the dream was finally finished, he opened his eyes, a huge smile plastered on his face. And in the silence of the room he laughed like he hadn't done in what seemed like ages.

In high spirits, he jumped nimbly from the bed, fully rested and ready for the day ahead. His throat was dry and his stomach demanded food, but he ignored them. Right now he was too exited for such trivialities. There were so many things he had to do! He didn't know where to begin.

As he pondered at his next move, he dressed in a hurry, collecting his clothes from the strange various places in which he had thrown them. Fully dressed, he spotted his trunk at the foot of the bed. Someone must have brought it while he was asleep. God, for this would facilitate his new plans even more so. He kneeled beside his trunk. He placed both hands on the lid and stopped before opening it, another appealing thought creeping in his mind; he staid in that position for some time, weighting the pros and cons of his latest idea. Whatever the idea was, he seemed to like it, for his smile grew even larger.

Dismissing the trunk, he climbed to his feet and went to room's window and opened it, looking outside.

He tracked the flight of a white cloud on the blue sky and he nodded to himself.

Remembering how he had felt the day before, Harry closed his eyes and when he opened them he was back in his new found mental state of ultimate tranquility. He blinked again, and he was back to his normal exited self. He smiled, happy for his achievement.

Remembering something, he brought his hands to the back of his neck from where he unclasped a tinny hidden hook. As he did so, a sparkling necklace appeared in his grasp.

He held it carefully, examining the beautiful craftsmanship in the light of the day. He took it to his lips, and kissed it reverently. Harry then placed it with care inside its wooded box which went back into his pocket.

Diving from the sky, a ball of white feathers landed with precision on the window sill, hooting happily just as he was finishing with the necklace.

"Good morning to you too, Hedwig!" Harry cheerfully welcomed his one and only favorite owl, petting her feathers. "I foresee interesting times ahead of us," Harry couldn't resist joking with her using his best impersonation of Trelawney. Hedwig approved, hooting excitedly. Harry laughed.

He stayed for a long time there, in front of the window, with his familiar on his left shoulder, wondering about his future, his eyes glowing softly.

TBC...

_Side Note_

_grumbelbin-dorak_ – according to Professor Ko's latest Gobbledegook Explicative Dictionary, this expression is roughly translated into modern English as _filthy rich_.


	3. Home, at the Lovegoods

**Disclaimer – HP & co, and everything else that you might recognize is not mine**

**Chapter Three – Home, at the Lovegoods**

Three pathetic candles were compassionate enough to bathe the room with their flickering yellow light. In a corner, where the thick shadows of a cabinet concealed her presence, she stood watching bleakly the miserable show in front of her. The script was a simple one, old as time, and played again and again, its appeal sadly never wavering.

She watched as he stretched his hand and grasped the bottle with a firm grip. He poured the amber beverage with generosity, in the glass in front of him. He placed the bottle on the table and drank the burning liquid with even sips. He would then throw the glass in the wall in front of him where it would shatter, spraying the room with shards and the white lime with drops of firewater. With his wand, conveniently placed near his right hand he would conjure a new one. And then, like a well oiled automaton, he repeated the process.

Again, and again, and again.

He had just finished his third bottle.

With a mighty hurl the bottle joined the ever increasing pile of broken glass on the floor.

He stood, looking dumbly at the empty glass clutched in his left arm. He opened his mouth as if to say something, only to close it back, no adequate words coming into his mind. Angry and frustrated he slammed his fist, glass included, into the table's wooden board. Ignoring the sharp sting and the blood that began to flow from his fresh cuts he angrily banished the shards to the floor.

He bent down to the right and pulled another bottle from the crate handily placed at the foot of the table.

He began to pour himself a new one, but stopped midway. He grabbed his wand, and after a moment's hesitation he flicked it and conjured one more glass out of nothing. Then, jadedly, he resumed filling his own.

"Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to join me anytime soon?" his voice was heard echoing indolently in the apparently empty chamber, his eyes fixed on his now full glass. "There are nine more bottles to go and they are not going to be drunk by themselves," he clarified waving tiredly his right hand above the almost full crate.

Without a comment, she detached from the shadows and headed with silent small steps towards the table where she took a seat on a plain wooden chair in front of him.

His eyes flicked for a second to her face which was concealed by the hood of her midnight-blue robe. Only two wide strands of golden hair could be seen emerging from under her top; they flowed from the sides of her face, following the lines of her body until they stopped on top of her breasts. He couldn't distinguish her features, but he didn't have to to know who she was.

"Ishade," he sighted not exceptionally surprised, while he filled her glass to the brink. "There's nothing like a huge crate of Ogdens Old Firewhisky to make one forget about things," he told her wisely.

"Does it work?" she whispered back, her silky voice tinged with sorrow bringing a touch of warmth in the cold room.

"Not at all," he deadpanned before swallowing the content of his glass in one huge gulp. The glass promptly flew behind and above his right shoulder where it crashed hard into a piece of furniture. The furniture survived, the glass didn't.

It had been years since the last time he had put alcohol in his mouth. At that time it almost destroyed him. But then he had his daughter beside him to pull him back, to give him hope and something to live for. What did he have now? She knew the answer to that question, and she was certain that on some level so did he. The trick was to make him realise it.

"Love, you are not helping her if you drink yourself to death," she stated firmly when he tried to take to his lips another full glass. He tried to, but didn't succeed for she had placed her right palm above it, pinning it to the table.

He tried to force the glass free, but the woman's hand flared and the whisky in it evaporated. He slumped in defeat just as the remaining bottles obeyed the spells of his uninvited guest and vanished.

"You've had enough, Love," the woman stated gently, but with a definitive edge that didn't bear any disagreements.

Of course, he disagreed. He hadn't ingested anywhere near enough. He could still talk without stammering for crying out loud! He could still think, and he could still feel. And the feeling of failure he was experiencing was tearing him apart. He wanted to cry and to rage at the world, but he knew, with a lucidity that was driving him mad that it would have been all in vain.

And how he wanted to hate the woman in front of him for taking away his drinks from him. He grouchily admitted that even this he couldn't do. It was official now; he was a certified failure. A loser.

He closed his eyes and let the wave of anger that for a second had surfaced to wash away. With a slow move he stretched over the table and took her white hand into his own. She opposed no resistance as he examined for a long time the rings that adorned her long fingers.

"You and your wonderful rings," he said in a faraway voice, lost for a moment in the history of the round jewels. He shook his head to clear up the cobwebs and looked up at her, without releasing her hand. "Why have you come?"

"When you didn't reach Sweden, we became concerned."

"Of course you did," he interrupted her patient explanation. She ignored him.

"I volunteered to come and check on you," she finished. After a long pose she added. "And it is a good thing I did." The man in front of her could easily picture the small smirk that appeared on her face.

"Ha?" What was good about stopping him from drowning himself in whisky?

"If it wouldn't have been me, then it would have been someone else, and I don't think that they would have been as understanding and tolerant as me."

He nodded in understanding; after all, she did have a point. One could never be too sure what those people would do from one moment to the other.

"It happened, you know?" he asked, a shadow descending upon his face. "It finally did..."

"I figured as much," she sighed, sadly nodding her head.

"I found her on the edge of the lake, near her willow..." he began to explain; a lonely tear escaped from the coffins of his eyes. He opened and closed his mouth several times, struggling to find more words, but none came into his mind. Defeated, he shut his eyes closed, trying not to let despair take a hold on him.

Ishade got up to her feet and circled around the table where he wrapped him in a comforting hug.

"We knew that it wouldn't last forever," she whispered into his ear. "But don't worry, we will find a way, Love. We will find a way to bring her back. You'll see," she added in the most optimistic voice she could manage, which wasn't anything to go by.

"Do you really?" he asked hopefully.

"Love, I do not have that gift, you know that. My big sister was the one who possessed it, not I. But I will do everything in my power to help my niece."

"Thank you," he managed a weak smile.

"My pleasure."

Ishade then proceeded to clean his wounded hand and heal his cuts. Once that was finished, she took him by the hand and guided him to his bedroom where she put him to sleep with the aid of a pertinent sleeping charm. She tucked him carefully beneath the bed spread and slowly backed away from the room.

Once outside, her feet took her directly to Luna's chamber.

In the neat room, Luna slept, beneath the open window, through which the stars and moon shone, caressing her face with their light.

Ishade stopped in the doorway, looking pensively at her niece, raking her brains to find ways in which she could be of help. There had to be a way, it just had to. The only thing she needed to do was to find it, which was easier said than done. She and her sister had failed once, and had made a compromise. And now, the time they had bought back then, had expired.

They had tried to give Luna a childhood as normal as possible. And they had succeeded, sort of. Now if she could only give her a life as well...

"Twinkle!" she called with her voice nothing more then a whisper. "Over here!"

A trail of glittering dust rose above Luna's head. The little fairy flew straight to her, leaving a sparkling path in her wake. She stopped in front of her face, where it levitated in mid air, her ethereal wings moving so fast that they were almost impossible to spot if it wasn't for the glowing they produced.

"Ishy, Luna cannot hear me," the tiny beautiful winged woman lamented to her big friend in her high pitched voice. "I sang to her, and braided her hair, but she didn't notice."

"I know, Twinkle, I know. She can't hear me either. She can't hear anyone, not anymore," Ishade sadly revealed. "But we'll just have to keep trying, won't we?"

The fairy nodded approvingly. "Of course we will! She is right here, only far, far away..."

"You're right. And it is up to us to bring her back," Ishade added encouragingly, and the fairy smiled widely hearing her words. "Please stay with her Twinkle; she needs a friend; now, more than ever."

The fairy made a loop in the air, kissed Ishade on the nose and rushed to her sleeping childhood friend. She cuddled on her left shoulder, covering herself with a strand of her blond hair.

Ishade remained a while longer gazing longingly at the girl who might as well have been her daughter. Only when both her and Twinkle were deep asleep did she slip out of the house, quiet as a breeze. She had a lot to do before she would call it a night.

OoOoOoOoO

It was morning, and a ray of bright and annoying light landed right on the middle of his face, irritating his eyes even through his closed eyelids.

The room was spinning with him, which was odd because he was sure that he had removed those particular charms months ago...

His mouth felt like rotten cotton and his tongue was swollen; not the most pleasant sensation.

To top this off, his body felt like it was full of lead.

And his head was about to pop open; something that he almost wished it happened, if only it would have put and end to his misery.

Even though it took a hell of an effort to get him drunk, he couldn't escape from the horrible hangover. Life just wasn't fair.

If asked, not even Merlin himself knew how he had made it into the kitchen that morning.

The frenetic activity in the usually empty room stopped all of a sudden when he had entered it, badly swaying on his feet and using the walls for support.

He had just tripped on a piece of reckless furniture which had jumped by its own accord in his path and was about to fall when two strong pairs of hands slipped beneath his shoulders to steady him.

He was gently guided towards the table and placed on a comfortable chair.

"Drink, Boss!" a woman's voice commanded, forcing a vial of potion in his hand. The tone of the voice allowed no disobedience. Even if she had addressed him with the appellative of _boss,_ it was quite clear that his authority wasn't enough to evade her order. An authority like that hadn't been invented yet; and wasn't going to be either.

It was a good thing he had his eyes closed, for otherwise not even in a million years would he have brought that vial to his lips. No sane person would have trusted a concoction that managed to turn people's stomachs only when they laid eyes on it. Then again, there were few who accused him of being in his right mind.

Everyone in the kitchen held their breaths while their boss drank the potion. More than a few galleons exchanged hands at that time.

As the potion worked its way down his throat, he could hear from afar the words of a witch.

"Hmm... the scales are fading... the green pigment seems to be resisting though, dilated yellow pupils, uncontrollable muscle contractions..."

That was about all that he heard before he bowled over and spilled out what little amount of fluids remained in his stomached.

When he awoke he had lost all the symptoms of his atrocious hangover. He was clutching another cup in his hand, but this time it was a cup of steaming black hot coffee. He took a grateful sip and looked thankfully at the assortment of people around him. His eyes landed on a short middle-aged plump woman on his right.

"Aply, what was that... _thing_ you gave me?"

"An ancient Aztec remedy," she informed him happily. But before he could say anything she continued. "I had found it long ago, in a fortune cookie while I was on a holiday in Thailand. Though I have never tried it before, I am pleased to say that it worked perfectly."

He groaned. He should have known not to ask questions to whom he wouldn't want to know the answer.

"Now, now Boss," she patted him on the back reassuringly, "you were in no danger at all. Only a couple of the ingredients were mildly lethal, so see? No problem!"

"Oh, somebody obliviate me, please..."

"We can't do that Boss," a vigorous tall man with intelligent eyes piped in from a corner. "If we do that, there would be no one left to lead us further to the picks of the journalism heaven."

His words are accompanied by heartfelt cheers and laughter all around.

"Kowalski, one of this days remained me to fire you." Kowalski nodded, a big smile on his face. "And speaking of the newspaper, if you're all here, who's running the Quibbler?" _The Boss_ asked his chief editors and special reporters.

"The paper is writing itself," a witch who was doing her nails and chewing on a pink bubble gum answered joyfully. "We have enough material for weeks to come, and besides," she added with a knowing smile, "we could always concoct some more."

"You needed us, Boss. So here we are! Wallowing in self pity is very unbecoming of you," another woman chastened. She was looking with undisguised interest at something on the other side of a window. "We'll find a way to help the little princess, you'll see," she turned her head for a moment and sent him an encouraging smile. Then she resumed watching the interesting show outside.

"Speaking of which, where is she?" the father asked wearily looking around, half dreading the answer.

"Outside, with Cinderella," one of the editors which was busy eating a late breakfast told him with his mouth of full ham sandwiches.

The silence that descended in the kitchen made him look up from his plate. The editor felt all the pairs of eyes in the room staring at him in absolute shock.

"Enjoy your meal," the man that answered to the name of Kowalski spoke quietly in the silence. "It's going to be your last."

"What! She didn't hear me, did she?" the man stammered, nervously swallowing the last bits of food from his mouth. "And you're not going to tell, are you? Are you?"

Nobody said anything. They just shook their heads sadly, and the poor man felt beads of ice cold sweat forming on his back.

"Mate, we're not going to say anything, but remember, there are less painful ways to go if you plan to put and end to your days. Not even the Boss can get away with calling her like that, and she has a soft spot for him," a reporter with copper skin whispered in the silence.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll do that," the man breathed in relief, still casting nervous glances all around.

"Boss, do you remember the two adorable and innocent little cubs Lady Ishade has brought back from Africa last summer?" Aply asked, delicately changing the subject.

Mr. Lovegood slowly nodded his head. How could he not remember? They tore apart his office and pretty much everything else in the Quibbler's building before they were subdued. There was nothing adorable about them, and most certainly their blood shot eyes weren't anything resembling innocence. How Ishade, the Lady of Cinders, could possibly love the two kittens was a mystery to him. He always wondered what had happened with them after that incident.

"Well, they are not little anymore... and right now, they are outside, with Luna. She thinks that they would make for wonderful bodyguards for the young miss."

The Boss felt his migraine coming back again. He didn't know what was more disturbing: the fact that Ishade has brought her pets on his propriety, or that he was crazy enough to trust her to do so; probably both. "Has anyone reminded her that it is against the law to even posses such... ahh... creatures?" he asked, even though he had an inkling of what the answer might be.

"No one bothered Boss," Miss Aply shrugged offhandedly. "It wouldn't have made any difference."

"Enough with the depressing stuff," Kowalski shouted, rubbing his hands feverishly. "What's for the agenda today? Conspiracies? Invading penguin armies? Magical abominations? Or plain old Fudge bashing?"

And bit by bit, with the help of his friends Mr. Lovegood managed to pull himself together. It wasn't easy, but in the end the desire to find a cure for his daughter's _illness_ prevailed, a quest on which he and the rest of the Quibbler's crew have embarked with an enthusiasm bordering obsession. They began searching far and wide, looking for even the most insignificant pieces of information that may offer a clue that would take them closer to finding a cure.

And Ishade... Ishade had taken upon herself the job of being Luna's personal nurse, assistant and surrogate mother, making sure that all her needs were properly taken care of. She and her cats had all but moved in for good with the Lovegoods. When she wasn't available, forced by her responsibilities and other obligations to leave for certain periods of time, if no one else, Twinkle, the little fairy, was always ready to help and guard her big fried.

And so, the summer days rolled for the house in the glade.

OoOoOoOoO

Watching the scene playing in front of him, the young Death Eater smirked under the white mask he smugly wore with pride and honor. He had found out early in his short-lived life that the small gesture would always give him an increase in confidence and a reassurance of his feelings of superiority. So naturally, he sported it as often as possible, even in his sleep.

He was impatiently fingering his impeccably polished wand, waiting for the signal to descend upon his pray like a withering embodiment of a vengeful god. For the glory of the Dark Lord! For fame, power and untold fortunes!

Father will be proud!

Though he had secretly wanted to be a part of the team that handled the mudblood, or even that muggle-loving bitch of a weasel he was pleased nonetheless. When the Dark Lord had picked him personally for this job, his chest almost burst from pride, but the consequences of that thing happening would have been dire indeed, so he restrained himself – his new black robes would have become stained with blood and gore and he just couldn't have that.

All he had to do was torture, rape, maim, kill, burn, plunder and destroy, and Voldemort's eternal favor would be his. He had trained hard and long for this, driven by the desire to prove himself to all and show them just what a pureblood of his caliber was capable of. He was ready for this; heck, he had been born ready.

But for the Dark Lord's master plan to be as effective as possible, all four designated teams would have to act in perfect synchronization with each other. So he and his two gorillas had to be patient for another moment or two.

His lustful eyes were fixed on the target. The blond witch was several yards from his hiding spot which was among the thick bushes of the forest surrounding her home. She was seated on the rich green grass, in front of her house, while a fairy was playing with her hair, braiding red and blue flowers in her long locks.

The display was making him sick. Even though she was a pureblood she was clearly filth if she was concerning with lesser beings such as that overgrown fly that flew and sang around her head; and mudbloods, and pesky half-bloods, and muggle loving fools. He couldn't wait to squash the fairy and rip apart its wings – they would make for some fine potion ingredients indeed.

In preparation for the slaughter that was to come, he had cast some low detection spells he had just been taught, and so he new without doubt that she was alone. And he didn't detect any protective wards either. Then again, what could he have possibly found in the home of such moon-struck simpletons?

This was going to be easy; too easy.

His daydreaming was interrupted by a sharp bolt of pain coming from his newly acquired dark mark. It was time; time to contribute with his not so insignificant bit to Scarhead's gift – tomorrow, with all his dear friends destroyed he would have his most horrible birthday yet. The Death Eater would give a fortune just for the chance to see his potty face when he receives the news; he couldn't wait for the first of September to rub it in his face.

Adjusting his robes, he signaled to his two lumbering brutes and together all three of them burst in the open glade yelling their lungs out to terrify the witch, just as they had planned. They held their wands high above their heads, and in their exuberance multicoloured sparks were flying out of them.

Their med dash, combined with their frightening regalia might have reached its intended objective if it would have been directed at anyone but her. As it was, in the unfortunate state she was in, the godmother off all snorkacks could have appeared in front of her to give her candy, and she wouldn't have cared at all. Only the little fairy reacted to their approach, hiding with a frightful yelp in the girl's wavy hair.

The three terrible avatars of destruction stopped dumbly two steps in front of Luna. Seeing that she wasn't yet scared out of her mind they were a little stumped. They hadn't planned for this situation.

Taking initiative into his own hands, the lead Death Eater bent foreword, waving his hand in front of her expressionless face. Not getting any reactions, he swung his fist back and hit her as hard as he could. Without a cry she dropped to a side, knocked out cold. By the time she hit the ground an ugly bruise had already formed on her fair skin.

Still crouched in front of her he turned his head to his companions no doubt to boost about his marvelous deed.

It was then when he heard it, goose bumps appearing on his skin: a deep growl that made the bones in his body to resonate and his hair to stand at the back of his head.

Maybe, if they would have paid just a little more attention to their surroundings in general, and to the area behind Luna in particular they would have spotted the place where the grass was lied down by no apparent reason.

And maybe they would have tried to figure out what caused it, instead of barging in straight ahead like bunch of brainless barbarians.

And maybe they would have escaped their fates; maybe, but not very likely. Nundus are not known for their merciful side.

The two disillusioned cats or the two cute fluffy balls of black fur as Ishade used to name them when she talked about them, were happily drowsing under the warm summer sun when the three wizards with ill intent made their presence known.

Used to the somewhat weird behavior of the people that usually frequented this place, they hadn't reacted at first. As the Death Eaters approached and their smell made itself known, packs of muscles tightened under their black skin. When one of them knelt in front of their witch, sharp claws were extended from their hidden sheaths. When Luna was hit, they pounced, the disillusioning enchantment fading away.

The one from Luna's right jumped gracefully over her prone body and landed with all her considerable weight on the back of the one who had hit the witch. Her claws dug dip into the flesh of the Death Eater, cracking ribs and piercing lungs. Using the body as foothold, she jumped towards her next victim who in the meantime had managed to run a few meters from her. One giant sweep of her paw and one of his legs was neatly detached from his body. He felt, blacking out due to the pain, massive blood loss and heinous dread. The she-nundu hurried to bite his neck to finish him off, but her jaws snapped shut catching only air. The emergency portkey programmed to activate in case of unconsciousness had saved him from the fate of becoming food.

Disappointed she had lost her prey, the female turned to see what her brother was doing. His victim lied dead under him due to a severe bite that chopped his head off. His body had become on big succulent pile of cat food.

The body of the third Death Eater, the one the she-nundu had first attacked had disappeared as well, only a big puddle of blood marking the spot where he felt. Peeved she had lost her chew toys, she carefully approached Luna's body where she promptly began to lick the girl's bruised cheek.

OoOoOoOoO

He stood watching the stars above on the clear summer sky. In nights like this it wasn't hard for him to imagine his wife and daughter laughing and dancing under the light of the moon, amidst the old trees of their forest. He could almost see them, their long blond hair flowing behind them in the wind while they beckoned him to join them.

Now, of all three of them, only he remained in the house that once had been full of life.

Today it had been too close. He had been at work when it happened. From when the alarms ranged and by the time he and his colleagues had reached Luna's gruesome location, it was all over.

One of the nundus, the female, was curled protectively around Luna's body while the other was busy eating from a bloodied corpse. Both nundus were purring contently. The smell of blood and death permeated the air.

The attack upon his daughter hadn't been an isolated incident. Only two hills further down from him another wizarding family had been attacked. The Weasleys hadn't been as _lucky_ as he was. Though the family resisted the attack more or less unscathed with prompt help from Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix, their house hadn't – now it was only a big pile of burned rubble.

"Everything will be alright Love," a warm voice came from behind distracting him from his thoughts. Ishade slipped her hands around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder.

"And you've had this revelation... how exactly?" he truly wanted to believe her, but he wasn't sure his heart could sustain more disillusions and false expectations.

She smiled furtively. "I have foreseen it..."

"Ah!" he understood, and even managed to curve his lips in a feeble smile. "You mean to say that you have impudently schemed behind people's backs."

"If you insist, then I suppose you can put it like that," she all but rolled her eyes.

He snorted.

"But amazingly, this time I didn't do much. I didn't have to. I just listen, here and there. You did the rest by yourself."

"Why did you insist to send my daughter away? We could have increased the security around here without too much problems. We could have stayed with her, we could have protected her. Why, Ishade? Why? Just what exactly are you planning?"

"Planning? I'm not planning anything. But I am hoping. And so should you."

"May I even inquire why?"

"Luna is at the nest now, is she not?"

He nodded. He had taken her there himself, just as Ishade had told him to. Leaving her there was the hardest thing he had done. At least she would have a few people of her age around her. Maybe it would do her some good.

"And Love, so is Lily's child," she told him as if this information would have been a sufficient enough information.

"Lily's child?" the man repeated in confusion. "What does Harry have to do with all this? Unless... unless he h-"

"Yes!" Ishade interrupted him. "You have guessed correctly. He has received his Legacy. I have just found out today from a mutual old friend."

A silence stretched between them, while Luna's father pondered at all the complications this situation may arise.

"I want to hope Ishade..."

"But...?"

"But I do not want to raise my expectations only for them to be smashed into pieces a moment later. What irony... James and Lily died on Luna's birthday and now we turn to their son for help... Do you know for sure that he will be able to help my daughter?"

Ishade lowered her omnipresent hood and looked up at Luna's father. She spoke slowly, trying not only to convince him, but also herself.

"No, I do not. There are too many unknowns. We'll just have to wait and have faith. And if he is not the key, or if he is not willing to help her, then we will continue searching. One thing we will not do. We will not abandon Luna."

Mr. Lovegood managed to smile a little, and kissed the top of her head.

"No, we will not. And if you believe, then so do I."

They stayed together, long into the night, taking comfort into each other's company. Above their heads the Moon shone happily.

TBC... next chapter: **Hermione's Troubles**

_AN – in the world of this story, Luna was born on Halloween, 1981_


	4. Hermione's Troubles

_AN – WARNING – this chapter has not gone through the hands of my beta; my friend who usually proofreads what I write has been unavailable, so instead of delaying it further, I am posting it now; if anyone of you wants to beta this chapter, then your assistance will be more than welcomed. And another thing: because some mature themes will start to appear inside the story I have decided to raise the rating, just to be on the safe side._

_And thanks to all of you who are reading and to those of you who have taken your time to leave a review._

_On to the story..._

**Chapter Four – Hermione's Troubles**

Location: London

Time: Tuesday, 30th of July, 1996, minutes before midnight

Under the light of the stars and moon the neighborhood slept serenely. The houses, aligned one after the other, looked just like any other residences owned by honest and hard working families. It was a place in which one could settle down, get married and have a bunch of loudmouthed kids. It felt secure, peacefully, homey; a slice of heaven down to Earth.

The neighborhood had only one minor torn in the side of its perfection: the house from number twelve. It was a good thing that the local inhabitants couldn't see the place even if they would have stayed in front of it. Because if they did, they wouldn't have spared more then a few moments to think before beginning to pack their bags and hightail it out of there, honor be damned.

In the dead of night a flock of black bat-like creatures was always revolving around the spiked tips of the roof. The roof itself was missing most of its red shingles, and through its gaps all manner of winged and scaly creatures had crawled their way inside the attic, where they laid their nest. Now and then a sinister hoot would spread through the night's air, and big yellow eyes could be seen looking unblinkingly from the darkness, searching hungrily for potential meals.

The once beautiful carved window shutters were now dangling from their hinges, and the wind took a perverse pleasure in banging them on the brick walls with every possible occasion. Huge cracks adorned the walls, and the painting they once had had flaked out long ago reveling the plastering beneath.

Adding a touch of colour to the otherwise bleak the decor, a tall dead tree was dolefully rattling its withered long branches in front of the mansion.

But this was only on the outside. What truly set this cozy little place apart of its neighbors was what lay within its battered walls; its people, its knowledge, its secrets.

Within, beyond the elaborately snaked carved old door, the interior did not disappoint. The inside was in perfect harmony with the exterior. It was gloomy, cold and full of dust, musty air and bad memories; a mere shadow of the splendor and power it once knew.

This manor, in all its former glory, was the residence of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, purebloods extraordinaire.

With few exceptions, everyone inside was asleep, as all should have been at an ungodly hour such as this.

On the ground floor, in the dark parlour, the fire had died out in the hearth, only a meager pile of red hot ember remaining. The tick of an old grandfather-clock was heard in the otherwise quiet room.

On a comfortable couch that without doubt knew better days in its time, two young girls were sitting side by side. One was not quite seventeen, and the other was well along her way to sixteen. They were about the same height, one with long blond locks, and the other with bushy brown hair. Their names were Luna Lovegood and Hermione Granger.

They were not the usual teenage girls one might expect. For one thing, they were both witches, wielders of the arcane arts. But even among the magical community, these two stood apart, not really being able to fit it.

Luna lay perfectly calm with her head on Hermione lap. She had her big azure eyes wide open, starring in the beyond. Except for the stray blink now and then, she was giving no sign that she was aware of the world around her. Since she had been brought here by her father in the evening, Luna hadn't moved from her spot in the middle of the couch.

Shortly after arriving, as fate would have it, she happened to pass by a morose and more than slightly pissed off Hermione. Everyone who was even a bit familiar with them both could attest with their hand on their hearts that the similarities between the two of them stopped with both being witches. The two of them had never been friends. They had had nothing in common.

And yet, when guided by her distressed father Luna passed her by in of the manor's halls, Hermione saw the girl's eyes making an almost imperceptible flicker towards her. For a fleeting moment, the world ceased to exist and Hermione fell in the bottomless empty realm behind her eyes. Disoriented by the sudden shift of perspective and by the disturbing place in which she landed, she opened her mouth to scream, but just then Luna made one more step, breaking the brief eye contact, and Hermione was returned to reality.

Hermione staggered one small step backwards, hitting a wall. Her face was pale and a sheen of perspiration covered her skin. No one else noticed; no one else saw the exchange that took place between the two witches. Hermione herself might have doubted that it happened, whatever _it_ was; but when she looked at Luna's back, she still could feel the longing gaze of her eyes and the desperate plea she had seen reflected in them.

A plea for _her_ help. A plea she couldn't ignore.

She swallowed her apprehensions and she pushed herself from the wall to follow Luna into the parlour with determined steps. As her feet took her towards the younger girl, Hermione had no idea what she could do for the blond witch. But she had recognized a primordial earning inside her soul, a desire not to be alone; something that she could relate to easily. She decided to start with that, by providing her with company.

As if Luna's plea hadn't been strange enough as it was, in the flicker moment in which their eyes connected, Hermione received something else from the younger witch; she received hope. The hope that by helping her she would be able to find the elusive answers to the questions that had plagued her own dreams; questions that for a long time she was afraid to even acknowledge; questions that had turned her summer into a bloody nightmare.

When Hermione entered the room, Luna was already on the couch, and her father was kneeling in front of her, talking in hushed tones with his daughter. She remained several steps behind them not wanting to intrude. It didn't take long for her to realize that what she had initially thought to be a dialog between father and daughter was in reality a monologue. Luna didn't even acknowledge her parent; even if his head was at her level, she did not look at him, but through him, as if he wasn't there at all. Focusing on Luna's eyes, Hermione almost gasped in shock at their blank and lifeless feel.

Her eyebrows furrowed and pensively nibbling on her lower lip, Hermione approached the duo and wordlessly took a seat on Luna's left. She took the girl's left hand into her right, entwining their fingers.

Luna's father looked up to her in surprise and Hermione had no trouble discerning his ardent desire to help his daughter, the terrible awareness that he couldn't do anything to help her and the pain of heaving to leave her behind, even if it was for a short period of time. She also noticed his shock when he spotted her face, but it passed quickly, and he did not recoil back in horror or shifted his countenance into one of pity, a fact she appreciated greatly.

"I'll take care of her," she found herself telling him in the most reassuring voice she could muster.

After a long moment in which Hermione had the distinct impression that the man in front of her weighted her very soul through his intense gaze, the worried father breathed in relief, and he smiled at her appreciatively; it was a dim smile, but a smile nonetheless. "Thank you," he said simply, bowing his head to her. Without another word he kissed Luna's forehead, got up and left.

As the man left the parlour, Luna chose that moment to lower her head into Hermione's lap. Almost as if she expected something like this, Hermione naturally wrapped her hands around her, cradling her. With slow, light, pensive movements, Hermione began to cares Luna's forehead. Once she began, she didn't stop, finding the gesture to be cathartic for both of them. Holding Luna like that, the anger she had accumulated in her soul during the summer slowly ebbed away, leaving behind her usual collected and analytic self. It helped her relax.

With the possibility of being rude, the duo of girls ignored all attempts made by the other people living inside the house to rouse them. Luna, because that was what she did best, and she couldn't help it either way; Hermione, because she was finally stress-free, and in an uncharacteristic display of selfishness didn't want for the feeling to end. All she had to do to chase away the most persistent of them, the likes of Molly Weasley, was to open her eyes and stare at them, not saying anything. That always did the trick. Eventually, everyone got the idea, and the two of them were left alone. After all, it was very hard for them to impose their opinion when they wouldn't dare meet her eyes, a fact to which Hermione was grateful for the moment.

This reasoning didn't go too well with her once she took into consideration her last proper interaction with the Order's witches and wizards prior to the moment of meeting Luna. But then again, she supposed that Mr. Lovegood might have been the one responsible by the lenient attitude that was manifested towards her. Though what influence Mr. Lovegood might have had here, in this place, was a mystery to her; until she had seen him inside the headquarters she didn't even know that he was a member of the Order. Now that she thought about it, Madam Pomfrey wasn't very pleased with the way the Order wanted to interrogate her either. And that woman could be very scary when the situation demanded it necessary. Most likely she would never know precisely what the cause had been, and she definitely wasn't interested in finding out why. She was just pleased that no one bothered her, and by extension Luna, anymore.

As the hours passed, Hermione found the thought of both her and Luna willingly setting themselves apart of the rest funny, even if, deep down, neither of them wanted to truly be alone. Even funnier was the fact that now, to some extent, she seemed to be taking decisions for both of them.

Hermione had noticed that as long as there was some sort of skin to skin contact between them, she could feel Luna's thoughts, like a muffled whisper murmured by a soft breeze. Well, maybe _thoughts_ was a bit too strong a word to describe what she felt from Luna. It was more like Luna shared some of her feelings and desires with her. Hermione was pretty sure that this ability wasn't hers. But why Luna decided to reach out to her from all the people, she didn't know; Luna appeared to be reluctant to give this particular information.

Due to the day's events, Hermione's ability to become shocked had taken a serious blow, so this little fact didn't disturbed her much; on the contrary, it picked up her interest.

What Hermione did know was that the blond witch wanted to be with her, and desperately at that. She had nothing against her wish. In fact, seating with her was a far cry from the way most of her summer had been.

Hermione's troubles started soon after she had come back from Hogwarts, at the end of her fifth year of schooling. In the days that had followed the incident from the Ministry of Magic, questions and doubts had began to seep little by little into her thoughts. By the time the semester had ended, she had managed to ignore them completely simply by denying their existence with a stubbornness that would have made a mule proud. But once she had arrived home, the questions returned with a vengeance, hunting her, demanding answers she was not ready or willing to give. A restful sleep had become the stuff of legends, something she had once experienced, but was now lost forever.

If her uncertainties would have been her only problem, things wouldn't have been half as bad as they were. After several restless days, her chest began to hurt, despite the fact that the school healer had assured her that the wound she had acquired during her last misfortunate adventure was completely healed. The wound was closed alright, only a faint scar remaining where the injury once was. But obviously something was still amiss, inside, for every time she breathed her chest felt as if it was turning itself apart.

Hermione found out quickly enough that muggle painkillers had absolutely no effect. So, she had turned searching for help in the wizarding world. To her dismay, all the mighty healers from St. Mungo did was shrug their shoulders dismissingly and gave her a batch of hellish potions telling her that if in three months the pain would not stop she should come back and do some more tests. Oh, and they had also advised, and heartily encouraged her to think happy thoughts, for this would surely help speeding up the potion's effects. It took all she had, and then some more to stop herself from blowing in the face of those incompetent fools.

It did not take long for her to learn to hate the fetid concoctions. She was good at this – at learning. Every stinking day, from six to six hours she had to swallow awful, fetid liquid mixtures that made her stomach walls writhe, and she had to gather all her will not to spray the floor with the meager food she was able eat. Every time she took a vial to her lips, she brought foreword the image of the one who had cast this upon her, and willed all the curses of the world upon him. It helped. Sort off.

She spent the days of the summer holiday trying to sort through her jumbled emotions. Something had happened during her impromptu visit in the bowls of the Department of Mysteries that had turned her life upside down, making her question every aspect of her life. This was the third, or maybe the fourth time when fate had slapped her with a life-altering event. For some reason now she had the most problems adjusting to the new reality.

For the first time she could remember, she did not know what to do anymore. For one like her who liked to have all the aspects of her life carefully planned and organized, this new situation that she found herself stuck in was very alien to her. Whatever thoughts about the future she might have head before this summer, none of them seamed to matter anymore. Good grades and nice shinny badges had lost whatever appeal they might have had on her. As did all the career paths she had envisioned for her for after graduation.

She could not see a future for her anymore. For what did all this matter when everything can be wiped out in the blink of an eye? What was the point to all of this? Rummaging through all the knowledge she had been able to gather from all the books she had read, she tried to find an answer. She failed miserably.

She spent her days mindlessly pacing around her home, or laying on her bed starring at spotless ceiling. Sometimes, when the pressure of walls would become too much for her to bear, she would go out on very long walks through the grounds surrounding her home – she didn't pay much attention to her environment during her wanderings, her senses always fixed on her inner turmoil.

But most of the time, whatever she did, wherever she went, she could not even find her place inside her skin.

Nevertheless, the most disturbing sign that something was terribly off with her was that she had never put a hand on a book. The one time when she picked up _Hogwarts, a History_ from the bookshelf only to throw it across the room several seconds later does not count.

Needles to say, the frustration she was feeling about not being able to form a meticulously course of action for her to take from now on, coupled with the pain from her chest and those damn infernal liquids made from the young witch Hermione Granger a very difficult person to live with. Of course, those who had to suffer the most were her parents.

Her parents did whatever they could to help her. They took time off from their practice to spend more time with their daughter. They tried to be there for her through whatever she was currently going through. They gave her their unconditioned love and support and in the end, it paid off.

Slowly she opened herself to them, and when she did, towards the end of July, she poured to them everything she had kept inside. They listened patiently to what she had to say, withholding judgment. Several hours later, when Hermione was left without things that needed to be told, they reassured her that whatever she wanted to do from now on, they will support her with all their heart.

But the decision had to belong to her and her alone. The future of her life was at stakes.

With her soul a little lighter, the next few days were a little better. She still took potions, she still had a dull pain in her chest, and she still didn't know what to do. The difference was that now she knew her family was with her, and no matter what she decided, she could always count on her parents help. Knowing that she was not alone, and that her parents were by her side, made the whole situation infinitely more tolerable.

But what she didn't like was where the conclusion her latest reasoning was leading to. The thought of leaving the wizarding world had become very appealing and disturbing at the same time for the young witch.

With this life altering thought Hermione had awakened in the morning of the 30th of July. She threw some casual clothes on her body and left the house, heading towards the family garden to think things through. She took a seat on her favorite bench, between two tall bushes, and she started to chew over the extreme idea. As the sun rose higher and higher above the horizon, the idea was becoming more and more tempting.

At that moment, she might have been willing to leave the wizarding world behind. But the wizarding world wasn't as willing to give her up.

When a heartrending scream coming from the house made her jump from her cozy little spot, she knew that trouble had come to her door. She tried to run to help her parents, but to her increasing consternation she found out she couldn't move at all. She was frozen in place. As another scream made itself heard, her horror grew tenfold. The scream ended abruptly, and in the eerie silence that followed, despair took hold of her, and uncontrolled tears began to flow down her cheeks.

"Well, well, well," a male's voice chuckled evilly into her right ear, making her hair stand on its end. She felt the hot tip of a wand pressing crudely on the back of her head, burning her skin. "I've found myself a little mudblood. Lucky me..."

The man stepped in front of her, slowly pulling his wand across her neck, leaving a stinging bleeding slash behind.

The physical pain, combined with the taunting voice put an end to her crying. That voice... oh how she hated that voice. With bleary eyes, she had enough control to focus her gaze upon the white-masked face of her assailant, memories of what happened at the Department of Mysteries rushing back to her mind. Dolohov.

All summer long Hermione had cursed this particular person above all others. And here he was now, in front of her. And she was powerless in front of him. She closed her eyes abruptly, and she began to breathe heretically, panic clawing at her fast beating heart.

The Death Eater, with a sharp move, prodded his wand into the hallow of her neck, making her gag. Her eyes snapped back open, only to see a hideous sneer smearing his face. An involuntarily shudder rocked her body, and she felt her growing apprehension reaching new heights. Her heart was pounding frenetically, the blood pressure mounting ever higher. A small part of her mind asked herself with a disturbing lucidity if this was the end. When she couldn't take it any more, her blood vessels ready to burst, she drew one last breathe into her aching lungs, and her heart stopped abruptly, the painful shock making her body rock despite the Death Eater's biding spell.

All of a sudden she felt a freezing cold the likes of which she never experienced before. She paled, the blood retreating from the surface of her skin with great speed. And like a snake uncoiling itself, something even colder and slippery began to stir inside her body, emanating from somewhere around her hips, spreading inside her, filling her, and when the _fluid_ reached and invaded her head, she was no longer afraid. Her heart began to beat again, and to her amazement, she was able to analyze with a clear mind the predicament she was stuck in.

"You survived my spell, little wench," the man continued in mock wonder, completely unaware of what was happening with the witch he tormented. As he spoke, he dragged his wand down her rapidly heaving chest. In its wake, Hermione's clothes and skin tore apart like butter sliced by a hot knife. He took great pleasure at her panicked look.

To Hermione's now assertive eyes, the arm that guided the wand down the middle of her chest began to move slower as it descended further down. With a calm that surprised her greatly, she managed to put aside the shame and vulnerability she felt and looked up to his face. Hermione clearly saw his mouth articulating the words, but the sound coming to her ears was distorted, like it had to travel a great distance to reach her.

"Now, what should I do with you?" Dolohov asked rhetorically when he finished cutting her clothes, looking ignorantly with glee into her damp teary eyes. Laughing at her helplessness, with slow deliberate motions he proceeded to remove the peaces of fabric that covered her breasts.

As moments passed, to Hermione's increasing astonishment, the Death Eater's motions began to slow down even more, to the point in which she couldn't understand anything from what he was saying.

Intrigued, for a brief moment Hermione shifted her gaze somewhere behind the man, and she spotted a white dove frozen in midair, the flapping of its wings barely noticeable. Dumbfounded, and not really understanding what was happening, she turned her eyes back at Dolohov, who by now was reaching with his hands towards her chest.

Her mind kicked in override, and by her estimations her would be rapist would take an eternity to reach his destination; she had plenty of time to figure out just what in the nine hells was going on.

She looked down, as much as her petrified position aloud her, and saw a soft pale yellow aura hovering ominously around her body. The aura felt alien to her. She wanted it gone. She really, really wanted it to disappear. She focused all her willpower to dispel it. But it didn't, despite her ardent desire; all it did was to make her head hurt and her breathing to increase, putting her in danger of hyperventilating.

She took a deep breath to relax, and looked again at Dolohov's progress. She still had plenty of time left.

Hermione continued to breathe in and out for some time, thinking furiously. She focused her senses on herself, and another feeling made itself known. Just beneath her skin, filling her body, the cold _fluid_ she had felt earlier was stirring again. She commanded it to stop, and it did. An idea came to her and began to experiment with it. She mentally selected a small part of it and shaped it in the form a tiny ball. The fluid responded to her order obediently. With a mental command, the ball exploded outwards. The shockwave passed through the yellow aura, dispersing it into the winds, and fading several feet from her.

She could move again, but her eyes and ears began to hurt severely and she staggered on her feet, the world becoming nothing more than a haze. She felt a warm liquid flowing down her face and the sides of her head, and tried to brush it of with her hands. Painfully she focused her eyes on her hands and she saw them covered in her own blood.

Forbidding the panic from controlling her, she methodically wiped the blood off her hands on her tattered attire, and as she did so, the torn fabric of her t-shirt and jacket sew itself anew. The insignificantly small amount of raw magic she used for this task made her more than a little sick, a wave of nausea taking hold of her body. She forcefully shook her head, clearing her mind again.

Hermione blamed all the pain, discomfort and humiliation she felt on one person. And that person was standing right in front of her, his hands almost touching her. She made one stepped backwards and gazed with all her contempt at the damned human being in front of her.

Dolohov experienced an encompassing feeling of doom when Hermione's image blurred in front of his eyes. When he saw her clearly again, she was one step further from him. Her face was covered in blood, but the most disturbing fact were her eyes – two crimson orbs with no trace of white in them. Feeling her stare boring down on him he let out an involuntary whimper. He tried to back away, but it was too late. It is said that before they die, all their life passes in front of their eyes; all Dolohov saw only her cold unblinking bloodied eyes.

Detached, Hermione lifted her left hand and placed it on his chest. With no remorse or pity, she selected another ball magic which she released into his body. The Death Eater gasped, all air leaving his lungs. Before realizing what was happening with him, he was propelled with a tremendous speed backwards, where he crashed into a thick tree with a sickening thud. His limp body gave one more twitch before it stopped moving for all eternity.

Hermione lowered her hand just in time with another rash of blood leaking from her eyes and ears. She felt air-headed, and fell to her knees. Remembering that the show wasn't yet over, she forced herself to rise up again on her wobbly legs. She turned towards her house and apparated away with a thundering boom.

She appeared right besides her parents, in the kitchen; the room was a mess, with the table and the chairs turned over, the cutlery smashed to peaces, and pools of spilled coffee and blood daubing the floor. One Death Eater was busy tearing apart her mother's garments, while the other, by the look of things was entertaining himself by casting a Crucio on her father.

Witnessing the appalling scene, Hermione, angry and weakened from her own encounter with Dolohov, lost all the control she had had over her magic. As time abruptly regained its normal flow for the witch, a powerful ripple emanated from her tired and wounded body, destroying all the furniture and knocking out all the four grownups in the room. Hermione collapsed on the brink of total and complete exhaustion between the bodies of her parents.

In a haze, with the last bits of magic available to her, she touched both her mother and father and together they disappeared from their home, only to appear moments later in the dark entrance hallway of the house from number twelve, Grimmauld Place. This was the place in which Hermione collapsed in blissful oblivion.

Unfortunately for her, Hermione's tribulations didn't stop when she had arrived into the Order's headquarters.

She woke up several hours later with a monstrous headache when someone was trying to force a potion down her throat with little success. Once the smell of the potion reached her nose, her stomach rebelled, and she threw up whatever she still had in her stomach. Somebody waved a wand to clean her up. She hadn't recovered from the first potion, when the healer put another abhorrent vial at her lips.

"One more and you'll be as good as new," the too cheerful voice to be legal of a young woman encouraged her to drink. "One big gulp and it will all be over!"

In the ragged state that she was, Hermione found the jovial attitude of the healer to be nothing less than a sacrilege. It annoyed her greatly. She tried to bat away the vial from her mouth, but her body was too weak to listen to her. In response, her magic rebelled, and the vial was blasted apart, shards of glass and drops of liquid spraying away from her. She heard the healer gasp in pain when several bits of sharp glass pierced her hand.

Hermione felt sorry for the woman; she really did. She tried to stammer an apology but didn't succeed. She was too sick to articulate words properly. Her muscles felt like they were on fire after her last bit of magical display. Her body began to twitch uncontrollably on the bed; as her movements started to become increasingly more erratic, she toughed she sensed several pairs of hands trying to restrain her and the energy of two or three spells washing over her before passing out again.

As sudden as it happened, Hermione's spasms stopped and her body relaxed. The girl opened her eyes and saw the face of Madam Pomfrey looking worriedly at her; a little bit behind her was another woman, younger, dressed in the traditional garb of mediwitches.

"Miss Granger, how are you feeling?" Madam Pomfrey asked gently while she continued to wave her wand across the Hermione's body.

The questions surprised the witch. After a quick mental check up, she discovered that she was feeling okay; no more headache, no more pain.

"I'm alright," Hermione responded after several seconds. "What happened?"

The Healer stopped waving diagnosing charms. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, Miss Granger," Madam Pomfrey told her with an apologetic tone.

Hermione paled.

"My parents?"

"No," the healers said shaking her head and Hermione breathed in relief. "They are fine, all things considered. They are recovering nicely from post-Cruciatus trauma and from the shock of being apparated. Apparating muggles is always risky at best, but I understand why you did it. They will be as good as new in a few days."

"That's good to know," Hermione smiled at the elder woman. "So, what is the bad news then?" she asked seriously. She was feeling good and her parents were going to be healthy again in no time. She didn't see any problems.

Madam Pomfrey sighed ruefully.

"There's no easy way to tell you this... Hermione, I am sorry, but you will never be able to cast another spell again."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, the words rolling out carefully out of her mouth.

"The entire explanation is rather complicated, but the essence of it is that because of the large amount of magic that has passed through your body in a very short period of time, your organism has been damaged beyond what we are able to cure."

"But Madam Pomfrey, I am feeling okay," Hermione protested.

"Physically, beside your eyes and some minor cuts that are almost healed, you are perfectly healthy. We have cured the laceration of you inner ears as well. But the part of you that is responsible for controlling and focusing your magic has been destroyed."

"So what are you saying? That I have turned into a squib?" Hermione asked incredulously.

"No, not at all. Unlike squibs, you still have your magic, but it is now just out of your reach. Your body cannot access it anymore. No wand will ever work for you. Again, I am sorry..."

Hermione didn't say anything, replaying the words of the healer over and over in her head. Well, anyway, she did want to leave the wizarding world... Now it appeared she had a valid excuse to do so.

"Mum, dad, where are day?" she asked in the end in a resigned voice. "I want to see them."

"They are in the adjacent room," Madam Pomfrey told her. "But you should stay in bed for a while longer. You are still weak."

Stubbornly dismissing all of the healer's attempts at confiding her to bed, she got up on her feet, and with swaying steps made her way towards where her parents were.

She took a seat on a chair between her parents' two beds, and for a long time she was awfully busy doing nothing. Time passed, and as the realization of the day's events started to seep into conscience, her eyes began to water, and streams of tears mixed with blood began to flow slowly from her stinging eyes.

Most of the Weasley family, after the attack upon their house had taken refuge inside the Black Manor as well. So, like the good friend he was, as soon as he heard that Hermione was up and running, Ron came to visit her. He had no idea in what condition she was in. The sight of her bloodshot eyes starring right at him gave him the creeps.

"Hermione, are you alright?" the red haired boy asked, not knowing how else he should start the conversation. As he spoke, he tried to look at anything but her.

Hermione closed her eyes and held back a groan.

"I'm just peachy Ron," she drawled, the sarcasm dripping out of her words. She knew her friend meant well, and he only wanted to help. But right now, his usual _help_ was driving her crazy; and at the moment, she didn't have the patience or the inkling to deal with anyone or anything. "Now please be a dear and LEAVE. ME. ALONE!" she shouted the last words as hard as she could.

Redheads are not renowned for their famous calm temper and collected behavior. And most certainly Ron was not an exception. He was not one to miss the opportunity to rise up to a shouting contest.

"You're not the only one who's had a bad day, you know?" he yelled back. "My house was destroyed; Ginny and Fred are at St. Mungo gravely injured and I suffered from a broken arm! But you don't hear me shouting, now do you?" he bellow loud enough to stir the dead, his eyes fixed somewhere above her head.

His screaming at her had an effect upon Hermione. It changed her feelings from acute depression to boiling anger. Her magic began to stir again under her skin, and she fisted her hands, digging her nails into her flash. Madam Pomfrey burst hotfooted into the room, whispering furiously at Ron. Her presence had a calming effect on Hermione's temper.

"Mr. Weasley, have you no shame? There are gravely wounded people inside this room. Now, if you cannot behave yourself, kindly leave," she finished pointed with her hand at the door.

Ron didn't need to be told twice. He stalked out of the room fuming, leaving the fierce Healer to check Hermione's bleeding eyes. He had no idea how close he had been to being at the receiving end of Hermione's rage.

"Do you have problems seeing?" Madam Pomfrey asked her while she was busy cleaning her face.

"No," was Hermione's plain response. The young witch was trying to regain her calm, and under the Healer's gentle administrations she was about to succeed, when Hogwarts' Deputy Headmistress McGonagall entered the room; so much for peace and quiet.

A number of minutes later, Minerva, followed by a very annoyed Hermione entered into the kitchen were a number of wizards and witches of the Order were expecting them.

After some hasty pleasantries Kingsley Shacklebolt went straight to the point, pulling a notepad and a ballpoint-pen from his cloak.

"Miss Granger, we have to ask you some questions."

"No," Hermione shook her head determinedly, crossing her arms across her chest.

"I beg your pardon?" the tall black Auror, as well as several others blinked in surprise.

"Hermione," Tonks stepped in, "we need to get a statement from you while the events are still fresh in your mind."

"Not now," Hermione replied through gritted teeth. Why couldn't these people just leave her alone?

"Hermione," Tonks tried again, "please, work with us. A member of a prominent pureblood family has been found dead on your propriety by the Aurors that arrived at the scene. If you do not answer to us, sooner or later you will be brought in for trial in front the Wizengamot."

If Tonks intended to calm her, she failed. Hermione bolted from the chair she had been standing on, her magic stirring again inside her body, just below the surface of her skin, eager to be unlashed. According to Madam Pomfrey she may not be able to use a wand anymore, but at that moment it didn't appear to matter much for the enraged witch.

"He was a Death Eater," she spat, her eyes glowing disturbingly. Tonks averted her face from her. "He tried to kill me and my family. That is all you need to know."

"Now, you listen here girl-"

Hermione rounded to face the African Auror. He too lowered his head to avoid her eyes.

"No! You listen! You all are nothing but a bunch on incompetent morons and talking with you is nothing more then a tremendous waste of time. I don't want to have anything to do with you. Not now, not ever."

And with that she turned her back to the bewildered group of people and went for the door, only to find it locked.

"Open the door," she demanded to no one in particular. Of course, no one did anything. "Open the door," she persisted in an icy voice, "before I blow it apart," she added the last part barley restraining herself.

Again, nobody listened. The witches and wizards from inside the room, most of them experienced in dealing with belligerent children, did nothing, knowing that after a tantrum, the witch, powerless without a wand, would calm herself sufficient for them to find out just what happened earlier in the day; it was for her own good. This being said, their surprise they felt at the events that followed was a great one.

Hermione's magical reserves might have been dangerously low, but they were sufficient enough to do what she wanted. She braced herself for the backslash, and using the same technique she learnt earlier in the day did what she promised. The door blew apart like straws fanned by the wind. She left the kitchen, leaving behind a crowd of open-mouthed people.

After several twist and turns, she stopped on an empty gloomy hallway where she took some time to seriously curse all the deities between haven and hell. Her head was hurting again, she felt nauseating, and she felt like she really wanted to harm somebody. The wall seamed to be a good target for her ire, and a second later she had to nurse an injured right fist.

This was the moment in which she saw Luna and her father approaching down the corridor. Once they bypassed her, she followed automatically.

And now, minutes before midnight, after a trying day, Hermione was finally about to fall asleep with Luna beside her, on the couch, in the parlour.

The squeak of the chamber's door opening had alerted her that someone else had entered the dark room. And that someone had stopped with the back turned to her in front of the old grandfather clock. By the pale starlight coming from the window, the boy watched as the clock counted the last minute until midnight.

**Next Chapter – A New Beginning**


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